Pebble in a Tin Can

A tin can came rolling across the road blown by the wind causing me to swerve to avoid crushing it on the way home from the hospital.  It got me thinking about the patient I’d just seen, blown into my path as it were by way of a psychiatric consult.

She was in her mid-twenties, admitted for a large abscess on her arm from shooting heroin.  She was showing signs of premature aging after years of use.  She assured me she was a hopeless case, multiple rehab failures, never able to finish a program before being kicked out.

She was abrasive and sarcastic, quick to pounce on any stutter or redundant question with ridicule.  I felt the stings but left them unattended, not allowing irritation to enter my voice.  I would not be like most everyone else: caught up in her anger, frustration, and impotence.  I was there to help if I could.

My lack of responding in kind wore her down.  Useful information began to trickle out. Her first memory of childhood was of being raped.  Chronic insomnia, nightmares, and flashbacks from smells plagued her.  She used drugs to self-medicate when outpatient treatment was scarce between rehabs.  

Subtle signs of warmth began to escape from her at unexpected times, furtive glances becoming more sustained eye contact.  There was a connection forming on a basic human level, hope and love still in there echoing about, maybe even a bit of faith rattling around like a pebble in a tin can.

***